


Hooks and Lures

by campitor



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst that leads to fluff, Family Fluff, Fishing, Fluff, M/M, Murder Family, Post-Mizumono AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 15:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5791615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/campitor/pseuds/campitor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They thawed. </p>
<p>A post season 2, "Where would we have gone?" AU. Starts as a bit of angst, leads to fishy fluff! This was written for fructosee on tumblr for the Hannigram Holiday Exchange!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hooks and Lures

They’d been living in Canada for half a year now.

It’d been six months since Will showed up at Hannibal’s house that rainy night, six months since he saw Abigail living and breathing and broke down into tears that made her skin feel clammy, six months since they packed up, boarded a plane, and flew far, far away from Jack Crawford and the FBI. Nestled high in the Yukon, they’d remained happily anonymous; no one had so much as knocked on their door to say hello since they’d moved in. 

Their new home was a cabin built on the edge of the woods. It was surprisingly generous in size, despite its modest exterior, and was furnished with rustic décor, heavy wool blankets, and a deer head that leered down at them from over the fireplace. Cozy, if not tacky by Hannibal’s standards. It was a 45 minute ride into town on the snow mobile, far away from any main roads, and farther away from any of the more populous cities of the territory. They each had eyed the place a little warily when they first arrived at it, disheartened by its isolation; the only one who hadn’t seem bothered was Will, who had been too busy trembling with trepidation and wringing his fingers around the handle of his suitcase.

The first few months were tense and unhappy, and for a while Will had drowned himself in whiskey and self-pity, bemoaning his stupidity, running his fingers along the peeling label of the bottle and hiccupping about how this wasn’t going to work, about how it had been a mistake. Hannibal would listen to his laments, and then guide him to bed and try to ignore the tears running down Will’s cheeks for the profiler’s own sake. He would cover Will without a word, tuck him tightly into the bed and weigh him down with blankets, and when he woke the next morning they would act as if nothing happened. They orbited each other warily, rarely offering affection, though rarely offering vitriol either. They each hid their sadness well. Hannibal blamed his tears on the steam that rose from his cooking. Will blamed his on the cold.

Abigail knew better than to ask about it. She would watch them interact the way a cat watches the birds outside its window, her eyes playing at disinterest but bright with curiosity. Her relationship with Will was still unhappy; she’d spend her days with Hannibal, learning how to cook and play the piano and fold little origami animals, and she’d avoid Will at all costs. They all ate dinner together—Hannibal insisted that meals were family affairs—and that was it. She couldn’t stand Will’s liquid stare, the mournful pout of his lip, and she couldn’t stand the silence between them all either. 

Weeks passed, and silence yawned, and the air tasted salty with sorrow and strangely broken hearts. Dark thoughts swirled in their heads like koi in a pond. They each thought of death, in their own way—or rather, perhaps, of lives not lived. 

But eventually things thawed between them. It started one night when Will tucked the whiskey away into the pantry, shoving it behind bags of rice and beans and tubes of spices, and followed Hannibal to bed. They spent an hour tasting the sweat of each other’s skin and fell asleep entangled and content, and when they woke the next morning they greeted the sun with the soft squeaking of the bedframe. They started to exchange kisses when they passed each other, much to Abigail’s amusement, and Hannibal no longer had to watch Will drink himself into a weepy stupor. It was a strange change, a sudden change, surprising as the first green shoots through a frosty cover. But they all welcomed it, and they could all feel that they were stitching themselves into a cohesive unit. 

And just as Hannibal and Will adopted the roles of husbands, Will and Abigail began to adopt the roles of parent and child, though they acted more as friends. Hannibal began to engineer time for them to be alone together, and while they both realized what the man was doing, they tolerated his attempts. They discovered a mutual love of reading, and so Will began to bring her books from the town’s library, things that he had read, things that the librarian, who had a daughter Abigail’s age, suggested. They would spend some afternoons reading in easy, sweet silence; time would melt away, and they wouldn’t separate until Hannibal started to prepare dinner. Will found that the less he tried to act like her father, the more she liked his company. He inserted himself into her life less, and found her inserting herself into his life more and more. 

It’d been six months since they departed that rainy night, watching their old lives shrink to specks as the plane rose from the tarmac, and they had begun to feel like a family. Will began to have fewer panic attacks, and Hannibal began to pick up some of his old habits; he hummed along to the classics station that they can pick up on their radio, though the violins and baritones growl with static. Happiness began to grow in their little cabin. Finally, they felt as though their life might work.

Abigail was often restless, though she claimed that she was content. She went for long walks in the afternoons, hiking through the woods to clear her head. Occasionally she ran into their nearest neighbor, an older American man with a pregnant birddog who followed him everywhere. He lived miles away and didn’t seem terribly concerned about the girl or her family, explaining to her that if she didn’t ask questions, then he wouldn’t either. S’better that way, he said in his gruff tone. People don’t always need to know so much about each other. 

They would talk occasionally, her on one knee rubbing the fat dog’s ears, him leaned up against a tree. Mostly they just talked about the weather, or the animals they could hear; he knew all of the birdsongs in the woods, and would point them out when he heard them. He seemed to find a strange comfort in their shared nationality, and admitted after many weeks that he hadn’t been in the States in decades, and that he sometimes missed hearing American voices. 

There came a period of time when the dog wasn’t with him, though she returned a few weeks later, thinner and lighter on her feet, a puppy in tow. The old man told Abigail that the pup was hers, if she wanted him. She quickly agreed, thinking more about Will than herself. When she arrived home with the puppy, Hannibal’s response was lukewarm, as she expected, but Will looked as though he might cry, though he tried hard to hide it. She named him Paul Berlin after the narrator of the last book she read; she and Will call him Paulie for short, though Hannibal was always sure to address him by his full title. 

They thawed. Slowly, they thawed.

They thawed enough that one day Will came back from town with a pair of bags from the outdoor supply shop in his arms, the brown paper bulging with his purchases. Hannibal, who had a guess as to what they might contain, merely glanced at them and returned to his careful chopping, a look of great pain overtaking his face as he pushed the white cubes of turnip over to one side of the cutting board. Abigail was more curious, and looked up from her book to watch as Will set his bundles down. 

“What’d you get?” she asked from the kitchen table. The fabric that poked out from the top of the bag intrigued her; it reminded her of the plain garb she wore while hunting with her father. Paul Berlin trotted in from another room to nose at the paper, jumping back in surprise when it made a crinkling noise.

“Well,” Will replied, “I found some fishing rods in the shed out back. So I thought…” He shooed Paul away and from one bag pulled out three sets of olive green waders and a trio of khaki vests. From the other he withdrew three pairs of rubber boots, a tackle box, a few tubs of nightcrawlers and nymphs, and a box of hooks and lures. 

“You bought a set for all of us, I see,” said Hannibal dryly, moving his cutting board minutely away from the fishing gear piled on the counter. Will grunted an affirmative around the tag he was wrenching off of a vest with his teeth. “I thought that fishing would be an activity for you and Abigail.”

He spat the plastic tag out into the trash. “If you’re going to teach me to cook and play the Theremin, then it’s only fair that I get to teach you something too, isn’t it?”

Hannibal’s lips twitched into an imperceivable frown. The rhythmic thump of the knife came quicker. “I suppose.”

“I thought we could go today,” Will continued. “It’s nice enough out. Mind as well enjoy the weather while it lasts.”

“I just started making dinner,” Hannibal replied briskly. Will watched as Abigail rolled her eyes behind Hannibal’s back and tried to suppress a grin.

“The turnips aren’t going anywhere. Come on—won’t it be nice to have fresh fish every week?” 

“I believe you are more than capable of obtaining all the fish we might need.” 

“Hannibal.” Will’s voice dropped to a low murmur that prompted the other to look up from his work. Hannibal was aware then, when he saw the way that Will’s gaze held a gentle, almost playful plea, that this was an argument he would not win, regardless of what excuses he might make. “This matters to me,” Will insisted. “I know it’s silly, and I know you don’t want to go, but…”

He didn’t finish his sentence. Hannibal was taken back to a conversation that they had before, back during their sessions, where Will had confessed that he often dreamed he was teaching Abigail to fish. He looked to the girl, who had stood up to run her fingers along the smooth rubber of the boots, and then back to Will, who watched her with a strange, heartfelt excitement.

To deny him this would be cruel. 

“I’ll make us a snack,” he conceded.

Will smiled triumphantly. When Abigail went into her room to change into different clothes, he walked around the counter and pecked Hannibal on the lips. “Thank you.” 

“You are a difficult man to deny, Will Graham.” He snaked his arm around Will’s hip to hold him closely for a moment. Then, parting, each man went off to pack for the trip.

The strange little family congregated back in the kitchen a short while later, dressed casually in clothes that they wouldn’t mind getting soaked with river water. Will was still surprised whenever he saw Hannibal dressed in jeans and flannel, as he was that day, despite the fact that these articles had become a staple in his wardrobe since they had left that story night. He had teased the man about it the first time he had seen him dressed so casually, and was dryly assured that he was only dressing so plainly so as to blend in with the locals. It always felt intimate seeing Hannibal dressed this way, Will realized; he wore his suits and silk shirts like armor, and without them he was a strangely vulnerable. The man had even let his hair grow out, and now it feathered and flipped at his nape. There was something about this new Hannibal that Will loved tremendously. Finally, the psychiatrist seemed less like a god and more like a man. 

As Will and Abigail began to layer their gear on, Hannibal stood by the counter, running his finger along the wooden lunch basket he had packed for them and warily eying his pile of supplies. 

“Are you going to put those on?” Abigail teased. 

“Yes.” Hannibal picked up the waders carefully, as if he were handling radioactive material. With an expression of great and stoic suffering on his face, he stepped into the olive colored overalls, frowning at the whistle of the nylon as the legs rubbed against one another. He buckled the straps slowly and with great care, as a king would fasten his fur cloak. Then he bent to pull the rubber boots onto his feet with great solemnity. Abigail and Will watched all the while, pursing their lips to hide their amusement. They smiled sheepishly as Hannibal tugged the khaki vest on, until finally Will’s mask broke and he chuckled, gesturing to his own cap:

“I almost got you a matching hat, too.” Hannibal scowled sourly. Abigail smirked, trying to imagine her surrogate father in a fishing cap. 

Dressed and ready, they walked out of the house and into the forest, headed towards a stream that Will had found a few months ago. Paulie danced around their feet, darting here and there to sniff at everything the woods could offer him. Occasionally his ears would perk and some beast in the distance would catch his eye, and he’d thrash and bark wildly on his leash until Abigail would shush him with a laugh. 

Eventually the gentle murmur of the stream reached their ears, a soft and playful growl that seemed to stir the birds into a chattering frenzy. The trees broke to reveal the grassy, sloping bank that dipped into the lazy, broad stream; the water shimmered brightly in the sunlight, the highlights on the surface winking at the visitors. Foliage rose all around them, dappling the stream with shade and enclosing the area in an arboreal womb. From the water rose a grey heron that scolded them for disturbing its peace; it wheeled above them, landing in a tree somewhere to watch the group with a wary gaze.

They found a sunny spot on the edge of the stream to set their blanket down on. Paul Berlin immediately curled up to bask in the sun, exhausted from the hike. Abigail sat down to dance her fingers along the knobs of his spine as Will worked to set up the fishing rods. “Did you ever go fishing?” he asked her as he attached the line to one of the poles. 

“Nope. We just hunted.” 

Will smiled, pleased that this experience could be uniquely theirs. He handed the assembled rod to Hannibal and started working on the next. “Have _you_ ever fished?” he asked his partner. 

Hannibal plucked the rod from his grip and stared at it critically, turning it over in his hands again and again. “No. We were a family of hunters as well.” 

“Well. This will be something new for both of you, then.” He handed the second rod to Abigail. “I don’t even know if we’ll catch anything, to be honest. I think I remember seeing some trout when I came here a while back, but I’m not sure.” Tying the reel to his own rod, he waded into the water with a familiar comfort. Abigail followed in similar suit, but Hannibal hesitated on the bank before carefully stepping into the stream. 

Will picked a spot in the center and cast his line out with a flick of his wrist. The store-bought fly glittered in the air before landing gently on the surface on the water. With sure, even pulls he tugged the line back, making the lure jerk and dart. “You two’ll just want to cast your lines out and leave them,” he explained as he pulled his line back. “You have normal spin rods. Pinch the line against the rod—flip your line around, Abigail—and then just bring the rod back and flick.” He reset his own line and watched his students awkwardly adjust the rods, lift them, and then cast the lines out. Will grinned as their lures landed with gentle plops into the stream. “Good! See, Hannibal, this isn’t so awful.”

“Not awful,” Hannibal replied, “Just wet.” His gaze flicked down to stare at the detritus that glided past his ankles. 

Will laughed and cast his own line again. “I won’t torture you if you don’t want to do it. You tried it, and that’s all I care about. Go sit with Paul before he tears your picnic basket open.” 

Hannibal was pleased for the chance to escape the muddy waters, and quickly reeled his line in. He left Abigail and Will to their fishing, settling on the bank next to the dozing dog, and watched his little family as they relished the feel or the water lapping at their legs. He could see them chatting, though he couldn’t hear what they were saying; it was better that way, he thought, better to let them have their time, their words, their newfound closeness. It pleased him immensely to see Abigail and Will getting along finally, though brought a strange, saccharine sadness to his gut, if he was honest with himself. He supposed he looked at them and saw every opportunity he could no longer have with Mischa. If he closed his eyes, if he unlocked the key to his memory palace he could almost pretend…

But Abigail was shouting now and so he stepped back into reality, back into a world of shattered teacups glued back together. A writhing, silver fish danced at the end of her line, gasping for air, pleading; she held it up so Hannibal could see from the bank. She and Will were grinning, delighted at the catch, and so Hannibal smiled back, happy with their happiness. The fish didn’t matter to him, but their closeness did.

He watched as they worked together to detach the fish from the hook. Will let Abigail hold it for second, and they laughed as it whipped its flat tail against her wrist. Then, very gently, she knelt and slid her hands into the water, releasing the fish with great care back into the stream. It darted away, life and breath restored, wiggling back into the river as one does with a warm blanket. 

Hannibal followed her line as it soared through the air again, watched as Will made his fly dance across the stream. His memory palace dissolved, and he focused on the now. He considered their newfound contentment, their thaw, the warming of their love for one another. The drips and melt from their old selves surely made their own stream. He watched a silver tail flick against the surface a little ways downstream, and wondered what sort of fish the riffles of their own lives held.

**Author's Note:**

> I definitely want to explore more Murder Family stuff. I love the dynamic! Bonus points for whoever can tell me what book Abigail was reading when she named Paul Berlin.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
